


Enganche

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: Tango Apasionado [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enganche: Tango—Hooking; coupling; the little hook. Occurs when a partner wraps a leg around the other’s leg, or uses a foot to catch and hold the other’s foot or ankle. (Or: rooftop blowjobs with historical footnotes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See "Salida" for notes about the universe.

Glorfindel was singing better than usual; Ecthelion was playing worse. There were reasons.

They’d bolted supper together in the green room after the night's first set. There hadn’t been much time left afterwards before they were expected back on the stage, but Glorfindel had found a hidden corner in the service hallway, and they’d lurked there necking until they were very nearly late. No one had commented on their flushed and flustered arrival, but Egalmoth had cleared his throat rather deliberately and reached out to dust off the back of Ecthelion’s jacket—where he’d been pressed against the whitewashed wall.

Ecthelion was quietly mortified, but it didn’t stop him from anticipating the next break.

When the second set was over, Glorfindel caught his gaze, then looked very deliberately up at the ceiling before making his way out of the ballroom. Ecthelion took his meaning— _meet me on the roof_. They were relatively unlikely to be disturbed up there, for all it was a nice night; Glorfindel was the only one who could regularly coax the lock, so generally no one else bothered. Glorfindel had already popped the lock by the time he got there, leaving the door propped with a broken broom handle from who-knew-where.

Glorfindel was at the edge looking down over the city when Ecthelion stepped out. It wasn’t a stellar view, given the much higher buildings on either side blocked parts of it, but he supposed it was an acceptable one. On a night like this it could even be called pleasant. But Ecthelion was uninterested in the view—or at least, the one spread out beneath them. He hung back at the door, admiring Glorfindel’s silhouette for a long moment before purposely making some noise to announce his presence.

Glorfindel spun around and gave him an impish smile. “It’s not the Gramercy Terrace, I know, but I think it will do for now.”

“It could be the moon for all I care,” said Ecthelion, sounding more casual than he felt. Glorfindel laughed at that and crossed to join him, pressing up into his space as Ecthelion seized his lapels, both of them leaning into the kiss.

They’d been at...whatever this was...for a month or more, now. Initially Glorfindel had been careful to keep it outside of Gondolin, mindful of Ecthelion’s hang-ups. He found out soon enough, though, that Ecthelion was more concerned with discretion than restraint. As long as they could find a place unobserved, he was almost always willing to indulge in a bit of enthusiastic osculation. This was the first time they’d come up to the roof, but there had been—well. Supply closets. Alcoves. A conveniently-placed tower of empty pallets. Fine for stolen moments, but the roof was more ideal for this, an entire break without interruption.

Ecthelion would normally have been the one backing Glorfindel against the wall, but Glorfindel was in a mood tonight and he couldn’t say he minded. He let go of the lapels after a moment and slid his arms around Glorfindel’s waist beneath his jacket, bringing them closer together. Glorfindel made a happy sound against his mouth and leaned in with some of his weight, now pinning Ecthelion physically against the brick. Ecthelion rewarded this by tightening his embrace, melting back and letting the wall take his weight.

They spent several happy minutes like that, entwined and amorous; until at last Ecthelion raised a hand to Glorfindel’s shoulder, pushing a little distance between them. “I think,” he said breathlessly, “we’d better stop.”

Glorfindel hummed in disagreement, pressing lips to Ecthelion’s throat when he pulled away from another kiss. “We’ve time yet. _Plenty_ of time.”

Ecthelion nearly relented, combing fingers through Glorfindel’s slick hair, putting it in disarray as he tipped his head back against the bricks. “No, I—” With an effort he pushed him away again. “Have mercy, Goldenflower, I’m stirred up enough already.”

The sudden wicked light in Glorfindel’s eyes was both a delight and a problem. “Are you?” He looked quickly at his watch. “Well, good. Ten minutes should be enough, then.” And before Ecthelion could protest, Glorfindel was on his knees, hands on Ecthelion’s hips, nuzzling the crotch of his trousers.

“ _Glorfindel!”_ he hissed. “You can’t—not here—” But his hand fell to Glorfindel’s head, fingers curling in his hair again, contradicting his objection. He was mostly hard already, and the very evocative (and provocative) sight of Glorfindel kneeling was quickly revising that from _mostly_ to _fully_. Glorfindel laughed warmly, sitting back a little to loose the buttons of his fly.

“I promise I’ll work fast,” Glorfindel teased, drawing out his cock, and Ecthelion was torn between lust and chagrin. Lust won out when Glorfindel’s tongue traced a long line up the underside, and Ecthelion sagged back against the wall, giving in.

Glorfindel, pleased, did not intend to let him regret it. He curled his fingers firmly around the shaft, jerking him slowly while the tip of his tongue played beneath the head with _just_ enough pressure that Ecthelion could feel it all the way in his toes. Ecthelion clapped a hand to his mouth, then deemed it insufficient and bit down on the base of his thumb instead to keep himself quiet.

He was a little out of practice at keeping his voice down. He would not have admitted it, but he liked when they stayed at Glorfindel’s place instead of his, where he didn’t _have_ to silence himself. Glorfindel’s neighbors were, by and large, a cheerfully profligate bunch—liable to be noisy in various ways themselves (though at different hours than a pair of night-owl musicians), and entirely unphased by anything Glorfindel might get up to in his spare time. Not that the two of them were _loud_ , but walls were thin. The one and only benefit of trysting at Ecthelion’s apartment was that the bed was more comfortable, and new enough not to squeak. To be honest, he thought his neighbors would probably look more kindly on him running a distillery out of his sink basin than on having to listen to him in the throes of passion. (Doubly so, given the object of that passion.)

All this was, of course, only a moment’s distracted thought—Glorfindel was doing a _very_ good job of keeping his attention in the present. This was an area where he far outpaced Ecthelion, though given their differing experiences, it was hardly a surprise. Ecthelion’s tongue had been trained to other pleasures; he had a fair amount of catching up to do on this one. Sometimes he paid close attention to the things Glorfindel did that turned his knees to water, cataloguing them for later.

Sometimes—like now—there was no hope of such detached observation.

Glorfindel’s lips met his fingers where they rested, then drew back again, his cheeks hollowed out with gentle suction; his hand shifted lower each time he slid down, until at last he let go entirely, the hand moving to Ecthelion’s hip, his mouth busy. Ecthelion was distantly aware that he was probably pulling Glorfindel’s hair, his fist too tight, but he couldn’t seem to help it. It was all he could do to hold his hips still when Glorfindel was taking him so deep, pulling back every so often to work his tongue around the head or press it lightly into the slit, firm where he needed more pressure and achingly gentle where he didn’t.

Glorfindel had been telling the truth about working fast (though Ecthelion could admit, at least to himself, that getting sucked off on a rooftop between sets—knowing how that mouth would be serenading the blissfully ignorant dancers a few minutes from now—was a significant spur to his desire as well). They were still a good bit shy of the ten-minute mark when Ecthelion pulled his hand away from his mouth to gasp out, “Jesus Christ, Glorfindel, I’m going to—”

Glorfindel moaned around him as if he weren’t the one on his knees, and Ecthelion knew he was done for. He came like a dive off a precipice; a swift run up to the edge, then glorious, blank freefall.

After a few long moments, he became aware again of his fingers in Glorfindel’s hair, his grip now gone slack. Of Glorfindel tucking him back into his trousers, refastening his buttons; of the ache in his hand where he’d bitten down around the base of his thumb. He drew a long breath as Glorfindel got up and dusted off his knees, then pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the pomade from his hand.

Glorfindel was looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Give me your comb,” he said, and then slid a hand into Ecthelion’s pocket to retrieve it without waiting for a response.

Just then there was the sound of someone on the stairs. Before they could leap apart, Turgon came bounding up, muttering darkly about the ventilation system and about having to do everything oneself. They froze.

At first he seemed not to see them, striding across towards the lean-to that sheltered a variety of maintenance equipment, and Ecthelion had the mad notion of trying to sneak back down the stairs. But then Turgon paused halfway, pivoting around in a way that said his brain had only just caught up with the scenery, and eyed the two of them.

He took in their guilty dishevelment, Glorfindel’s hand in Ecthelion’s pocket, the crumpled handkerchief in Ecthelion’s hand; the conclusion he drew might not have been _precisely_ correct, but it was certainly along the right lines.

“Hey, boss,” Glorfindel offered sheepishly. Ecthelion could have slugged him.

Turgon opened his mouth, closed it again, then at last sighed and said, “I don’t care, I don’t want to know. For fuck’s sake. Shouldn’t you be onstage?”

Glorfindel glanced at his watch, and ignored Ecthelion treading pointedly on his foot. “In about thirty-seven seconds, yes. If you’ll excuse us…?”

They fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _enthusiastic osculation:_ That’s the ten-dollar-word version of “canoodling.”
> 
>  _Gramercy Terrace:_ The rooftop terrace of the Gramercy Park Hotel, especially notable for being the place where Humphrey Bogart married his first wife Helen Menken in 1926.
> 
>  _wipe the pomade off:_ Pomade is a bit of a misnomer here; it really would have been something more oil-based like Brilliantine—or at Glorfindel’s income level, just plain petroleum jelly.
> 
>  _ventilation:_ Air conditioning was just starting to gain a foothold in the 1920s, primarily in movie theatres (people came as much for the climate control as for the show!), though it could also be found in some department stores and other businesses, and the first home AC unit was developed in 1928 (though home AC didn’t really boom until the 50s). Anyway, I decided Hotel Gondolin should have air conditioning, though that may be stretching a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> victoriousscarf said _(Oh my god Turgon like your best friend is Finrod??? Of course you employ a bunch of degenerates! I just imagine him bitching to Finrod about that and Finrod just cracking the fuck up)_ , and I couldn't resist writing it down, so consider this a little epilogue.

Turgon had had a hell of a week. He was spilling out his very long list of complaints over a glass of Finrod's best liquor, but his litany of woe was so endless that he'd barely touched the glass. Or paused to draw breath.

"So I'm up on the roof with a wrench, an incomprehensible manual, and absolutely no clue what I'm doing—oh, and I forgot about the musicians."

Finrod raised an eyebrow. "Musicians?"

" _Musicians_ ," Turgon said again, darkly, with the air of beginning a new story even though he hadn't finished the last one. "You know what they're like, Ingo."

"Do I?" Turgon, in his irritation, entirely missed the amused light in Finrod's eyes.

"Flighty degenerates, the lot of them." Finrod's mouth twitched, but Turgon was too busy burning a hole in the tabletop with his glare to catch it. "So I get up on the roof, and there's the trumpet player and the singer all entangled and flustered and half-buttoned. I keep that door locked for a reason, you know! I mentioned this was a Saturday night, didn't I? And of course they are supposed to be _playing_ like I _pay them to do_ , so I say, 'Aren't you supposed to be on stage?'"

Finrod gave every impression of a sympathetic listener, so he plowed on.

"And the singer—this cheeky motherfucker, he looks me straight in the eye and says... 'In about thirty-seven seconds.'" Turgon concluded his story by slamming his palm on the table, making his liquor slosh dangerously.

"How very frustrating that must have been for you," Finrod said placidly. That was too much for even Turgon's distracted ear to buy as genuine, though, and he looked up sharply.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously."

At that, Finrod dissolved into helpless laughter, though he tried to gasp out a denial through his mirth. "Of course I am! Poor Turgon—surrounded by libertines—how could he _possibly_ have seen this coming—he usually surrounds himself with such _upright_ people—"

Turgon sighed theatrically, and finally set to his liquor. He was going to need a few refills.


End file.
